Belle

By Blair Bancroft

While attempting to put on a good face for her first London Season, Lady Arabella Pierrepont goes home each night to endure the raucous attention of her father's gaming partners. One evening, when Baron Pierrepont reaches a new low, offering his daughter's virginity to the next winner, Gabriel, Viscount Ashford, helps Arabella escape. He takes her to The Aphrodite Academy, where she is given three choices: the respectable but dull life of a companion, a marriage well below her station in life, or training to become one of London's finest courtesans. Since she has taken men in dislike and would like nothing better than to drain their purses dry, she chooses the scandalous life. But none of the armor she has thrown up can protect her when the highest bidder for her services is Lord Ashford, the one man she considers a hero. Both must grow wiser and listen to their hearts before Belle can put the abuse she suffered behind her and Gabriel can shed the casual sexual practices of the so-called Regency gentleman.

Author's Note: I think of The Aphrodite Academy series as "Regency Darkside," novellas that go beyond the usual Regency Historical to explore what might have happened to young women, from ladies to tavern wenches, for whom life was unkind—young women with no family or friends willing to help when their lives fall apart. In this series each girl will find The Aphrodite Academy, or it will find them. The headmistress is a widowed baroness, left in charge of a remarkable fortune by a husband whose proclivities were as eclectic as they were enthusiastic. She has, perhaps not surprisingly, barred all males from the grounds of the Academy, where she offers academic classes, arranges suitable positions for some of her students, and offers training in the fine arts of the courtesan to those who wish it.

The language is saucy, the sex occasionally graphic, but the stories are driven by character and plot, not sexual content.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blair Bancroft
• Release date: Nov 19, 2013
• ISBN: 9780985706357

Blair Bancroft

Blair Bancroft recalls receiving odd looks from adults as she walked home from school at age seven, her lips moving as she told herself stories. And there was never a night she didn't entertain herself with her own bedtime stories. But it was only after a variety of other careers that she turned to serious writing. Blair has been a music teacher, professional singer, non-fiction editor, costume designer, and real estate agent. She has traveled from Bratsk, Siberia, to Machu Picchu, Peru, and made numerous visits to Europe, Britain, and Ireland. She is now attempting to incorporate all these varied experiences into her writing. Blair's first book, TARLETON'S WIFE, won RWA's Golden Heart and the Best Romance award from the Florida Writers' Association. Her romantic suspense novel, SHADOWED PARADISE, and her Young Adult Medieval, ROSES IN THE MIST, were finalists for an EPPIE, the "Oscar" of the e-book industry. Blair's Regency, THE INDIFFERENT EARL, was chosen as Best Regency by Romantic Times magazine and was a finalist for RWA's RITA award. Blair believes variety is the spice of life. Her recent books include Historical Romance, Romantic Suspense, Mystery, Thrillers, and Steampunk, all available at Smashwords. A long-time resident of Florida, Blair fondly recalls growing up in Connecticut, which still has a piece of her heart.

Book preview

Belle

by Blair Bancroft

Published by Kone Enterprises

at Smashwords

Copyright 2014 by Grace Ann Kone

For other books by Blair Bancroft,

please see http://www.blairbancroft.com

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

Welcome to The Aphrodite Academy series—Belle, Cecilia, Holly and Juliana. These are stories of the dark side of the Regency era, of young women who were not so fortunate in their birth or their experiences as the heroines of traditional Regency novels. They are, however, still romances, and somehow manage that Happily Ever After ending we all love.

Prologue

Richmond, 1814

Lady Juliana Rivenhall sat in the bookroom of Thornhill Manor, a considerably greater estate than the modest name implied, and listened to the droning voice of the solicitor reading the Last Will and Testament of Geoffrey Rexford Rivenhall, her husband. Her late husband. What a hot-headed fool he was, to indulge in pistols at dawn with a man known for his feats of marksmanship. But that was Geoffrey—passionate in all pursuits. Including any reasonably attractive female who did not instantly succumb at the first touch of his hand to her hip. Geoffrey hunted for the challenge, the wit, the repartee, the triumph of a successful hard-won conclusion . . .

To my devoted housekeeper, Mrs. Emmaline Thorpe, the sum of . . .

Would it never end? The devil take all solicitors and the other ghouls present, each wondering if Geoffrey had remembered them.

Unfair. Unkind. They had all served well, from the vicar who hoped for a new steeple to the estate steward who had served as long and faithfully as Mrs. Thorpe, who was now sobbing into her handkerchief at the unexpected generosity of her bequest.

For all his faults, Geoffrey had been a good man. The things he had taught her . . . the adventures they’d had. He had broken her in quite gently to his often startling world, though not without shocking the sensibilities of a properly brought up young lady of twenty. There had been times Juliana vowed to be on the next mail coach back to Mama and Papa. She hid a nostalgic smile behind her black veil. Those days were long gone. She had enjoyed a surprising amount of her five years of marriage. Though a determined effort not to think about society’s reaction to the way Lord Rivenhall and his wife lived their lives—should they ever be discovered—was all that kept her head high, a gracious smile on her face.

And then there was the child, the babe she so longed to conceive. And now never would. Juliana forced her attention back to the solicitor, Thaddeus Leath.

And to my beloved wife, Juliana Augusta Rivenhall, I leave the remainder of my estate. Thornhill Manor in the county of Surrey, the hunting box in Melton Mowbray, our house on the Marine Parade in Brighton, the racing stables in Epsom.

For all the stern discipline Juliana had cultivated to hide her emotions, she failed to choke back a gasp. Geoffrey and she had visited all those places, of course, but somehow she had not thought he owned them. At least not all.

Also to my wife’s sole benefit, I leave ownership of Rivenhall Shipping, my four mills in the Midlands, and my investments in the Funds. The solicitor cleared his throat. The sum invested in the Funds, my lady, should bring you approximately £30,000 per annum.

Murmurs of astonishment echoed through the bookroom. Juliana, struggling with shock, forced herself to speak. Mr. Leath, are you saying that I will have £30,000 per annum in addition to the income from Thornhill, the shipping company, and the mills?

That is correct, my lady.

Geoffrey had once told her ninety percent of the population lived on less than a hundred pounds a year, and she was to have . . . Merciful heavens, the sum was staggering.

They had always lived well, of course. She had, in fact, frequently chided Geoffrey for his extravagance, telling him he would soon have the bailiffs at the door. Never, ever, had she dreamed of wealth on this scale.

Mr. Leath cleared his throat. If I may, Lady Rivenhall, there is a bit more. She offered a negligent wave of her hand, and the solicitor continued. I name Juliana Augusta Rivenhall sole Executor of my estate. She is to have access to any and all funds once belonging to me and may make any and all business decisions once made by me. I name my good friend and long-time employee, Darius Wolfe, to assist her in these matters of business. Lady Rivenhall, a woman of high intelligence and great common sense, has been an exemplary wife, and it gives me great pleasure to put this power in her hands. Signed in the presence of Witnesses this Fourth Day of the Tenth Month in the Year of our Lord, 1810, by Geoffrey Rexford Rivenhall of Thornhill Manor, County of Surrey, England.

Darius? But of course Darius. Who else?

Beneath her veil Juliana smiled.

Chapter 1

London, 1816

Lady Arabella Pierrepont, a brilliant social smile fixed to an exquisitely aristocratic face, bid her hostess farewell before ducking beneath the umbrella held by a footman and following Lady Margaret Wainwright, her chaperone, to their waiting carriage. A veritable crush, the Chumleigh’s ball had been a highlight of the Season. Lady Arabella, afraid to go home, had stayed as long as she could. At two in the morning, however, the sight of Lady Wainwright’s pale face and drooping shoulders had forced her feet off the dance floor. And now . . .

Now she would spend the fifteen-minute drive to her home quivering with terror. And praying for deliverance.

Perhaps she could sneak inside . . .

Only if the carriage’s wheel were muffled. For the night was warm, if damp from a mizzling rain. Windows would be open, the sound of iron-rimmed wheels on cobbles as loud as the clatter of the Horse Guards on parade.

Could she beg to spend the night with Lady Wainwright? And have that poor lady, a woman of timid temperament and uncertain years, dead of an apoplexy when Baron Pierrepont came pounding at her door?

Baron Pierrepont. She could not name him father. If her mother still lived, Arabella would demand to know the truth. Was she truly a Pierrepont, or had her mother played her father false, Arabella the offspring of an entirely different man? For surely no man would treat his own daughter so. How could any man treat a woman so? Most particularly, a man of title, a nobleman. Surely only the lower classes were so depraved. But when she had said as much to her maid, Tess had laughed at her, assuring her men were the same, high or low, white, brown, or yellow. Bastards all.

No! She would not believe it. While her mother was alive, life had been as fine as anyone could wish. Admittedly, she saw little of her father, living almost solely in a world of mother, governess, and other young ladies of the ton and their mothers. At seventeen she had not yet caught so much as a glimpse of the dark side of life.

Then Mama was gone, suddenly, tragically, in a fall down the stairs of Pierrepont House.

And everything changed.

God help her, how everything changed. Bastards all.

Surely not. There had to be someone out there willing to rescue her. Someone kind—perhaps a woman—who would not beat her . . . or put her on display.

With a great clattering of hoofs, the carriage stopped. Above the smell of steaming horse, cigar smoke drifted through the open windows of her father’s cardroom. A slight ripple in the curtains as a silhouetted face peered out.

Agony pierced her soul. She was discovered. Her night was just beginning.

Arabella was in the midst of disentangling three soggy ostrich plumes from her hair when the knock came. Lady Arabella?

Tess, you may tell Stebbins I am soaked through, exhausted, and well on my way to bed. No sense complaining of the footman who failed to appear to protect her from the rain. At one of her father’s evening parties for London’s most debauched gentlemen gamesters, Baron Pierrepont demanded the full attention of his staff.

Lady Arabella, the butler reiterated, putting his foot in the crack Arabella’s maid had opened in the bedchamber door, I am most sincerely sorry, but you know full well the baron will not allow you to cry off. If you do not appear within the next five minutes, I fear the consequences.

So did she.

Very well, she would leave her damp clothes on, catch her death, and thus escape the baron’s clutches. A definite solution, if not the best she could hope for.

Indeed, there was no best. Stebbins, Tess, and the housekeeper Mrs. Amory had closely questioned her in the past, only to have Arabella point out a sad lack of relatives on both sides of her family. Or at least any who would dare challenge the wrath of Baron Eustace Pierrepont, a man with friends in high places, even though the ton generally considered him the lead shark in a sea of very loose fish. A salient fact that was queering any chance Arabella might make a respectable match. People didn’t bother to lower their voices when they expressed their opinions or passed along the latest bit of gossip about the inhabitants of Pierrepont House.

Lady Arabella? No better than she should be, I hear. But what can you expect from a Pierrepont?

Haymarketware, declared a dowager countess. Poor child simply doesn’t know it yet.

Pierrepont’s gel? Never will she darken the door at Comstock House!

Arabella Pierrepont?" an earl proclaimed to his enamored heir. "I’d as soon see you wed to a Covent Garden tart!

My lady, Tess hissed, her dark eyes anxious. Stebbins is waiting. You’d best go with him, or it’ll be the whip again.

Grimly, Arabella handed the wilted plumes to her maid. By all means, if I am to be the evening’s entertainment, let us strive for the full effect, drooping feathers and all. She lifted her chin, sitting tall and regal while Tess inserted the sad-looking white feathers back into her upswept blonde hair. A fresh pair of gloves. I fear ’tis impossible to reinsert one’s fingers in damp kidskin. Eyes full of sympathy, Tess did as she was told. My paisley Kashmir shawl, Lady Arabella added as she stared at a reflection of the bedraggled feathers which threatened